Summer Camp is Over

A few weeks ago, I was talking to my friend, Nicole, about the strange loveliness of becoming close friends with someone over a very short period of time. We had met, hit it off, and found a great rhythm with our friendship immediately, seeing each other in some way most days since, while I’ve been visiting New York through October and November.

She said that meeting people while travelling feels like Summer Camp - you're with a new group of people who you click with, but you're consciously or sub-consciously aware of the clock ticking down on your time together.

So, to fight the clock, you forge friendships quickly - in rushes of conversation, in long evenings where nobody wants to leave, in waves of laughter and affection and connection when you see the little connections and shared interests that start binding you together.

That's paraphrasing, of course. But, fuck, it’s pretty spot on. It’s been Summer Camp, with activities (writing), events, fireside conversations, parties, ridiculousness, in-jokes and a million photos and souvenirs to take back. 

I went to Summer Camp and all I got was a matching tattoo with another camper (which is pretty sweet, isn’t it?).

There was a post forever ago, somewhere on the internet (maybe a quote, maybe a tweet, maybe an Etsy artwork in cursive font - it's irrelevant), about being saddened at the idea of never being able to read all of the books you want to; there just isn't enough time.

I always felt the same way about spaces, walking through the city in Melbourne - I'd see beautiful architecture or interesting doors and think sadly about all of the gorgeous apartments, interesting spaces and slices of history I'd never see, or photograph.

Every new venue I went into - the Plaza Ballroom, two flights of stairs below street level and every bit as ornate as you can imagine; the strange little graffitied stairwell at the back of Shanghai Dumplings (the good one - though that's up for discussion); the city view from the top of the carpark next to 170 Russell (when it's safe to ascend); the hotel rooms at the Windsor that look out to...a brick wall - I would get so fascinated about how the spaces looked, how they photographed. The story of a place and, most importantly - the stories that happened in them.

I wanted to be invited into every room and learn all about the spaces and the people that occupied them.

Walking through Manhattan and Brooklyn, I get the same feeling about the streets - each one is so different from day to night, as street art is created and destroyed and created again; the seasons make the parks unrecognisable from fall to winter and the difference between sunshine and cold weather wildly changes the day you might have, even if every place you roam is familiar.

Sometimes it's just nice to get familiar with a few little places. To become a regular in the cafe that does ace coffee, to know which places serve greasy vegan food up to midnight (or beyond) and to know the importance of a slow night with good company.

On this trip, I have been crammed into a bar full of people listening to gorgeous jazz music and whispering across the bar to order another lavender gimlet, letting the night slowly ebb away.

I’ve also been crammed into makeshift music venues, hearing jazz musicians blast music out of time and out of tune - straining the borders of my anxieties as I contemplate the safest point to quietly walk out of the venue (I didn’t, the next band was fine).

I’ve stood in a crowded basement as some of my favourite bands played some of my favourite songs, singing along and watching one determined man crowdsurf his way on stage no less than five times (security was pissed; he was treated like a king after the show).

I've spun the wheel of fortune at Duff's - a mystery prize wheel that ranges from shots in condoms to dog biscuits to a Pabst Blue Ribbon to a sticker - and seen two people scoff their dog bikkies in unison. I’ve also tried their Jesus Juice (I didn’t ask, and you shouldn’t, either).

I've eaten gigantic slices of pizza into the late hours with another traveller, talking about art and celebrity and social media and life and culture - ending in a promise to meet up again, have a few drinks and try to flip an unsuspecting mini cooper.

I’ve been back to that pizza place with a friend feeling Rough as Guts, chatting and eating and letting all the feelings of the day wash over us.

I’ve seen movies with friends, half-blitzed from beer roulette, and I’ve seen movies alone.

I've sat on couches with close friends and shared our wins and our losses and our worries and our hopes and our affection about friends and friendship and the loveliness of others.

I’ve seen friends push back couches to form a makeshift dancefloor as everyone, half-cut on edibles and strange beers, belts out Wagon Wheel, Country Roads and Don’t Stop Believin’.

I've played overpriced miniature bowling in the back of a crowded club, with a slide for an entrance, happily cheering on every strike that destroyed the dodgy pin retrieval system.

I've sat in a crowded ramen restaurant at 1am, having the best coconut ramen of my life with people sharing stories from back home.

I've met artists who I've looked up to for years - people I think are at the pinnacle and cutting edge of what you can do with photography - and been welcomed immediately into their lives and practice, with genuine interest and respect.

I've heard some of the best written pieces of my life, performed by a group of kind-hearted people who pack a certain bar in a certain street every Tuesday at 7.30pm to work and talk and have more than a couple drinks.

I've danced in a bar with friends, and simultaneously lost glasses and apartment keys on a foggy club dancefloor.

I've told stories from back home to groups of people around the table, sharing cigarettes and revolving rapt attention around a table when one story sparks another and another and another.

I've worn my finest clothing to go to the strangest restaurant, sharing my first margarita with one of the countless vibrant and beautiful and kind people I've stumbled across.

I've shared quiet laughs with people on crowded trains, as everyone sardines and sways around corners, bumping into each other and doing anything possible to avoid eye contact when it happens.

I've returned to familiar spaces in new seasons and stood in quiet wonder about how much can change over seven years and how the memories you make - the sights and smells and sounds - blend and burn into one another, indelible but sometimes only prompted back to the surface of your brain when you experience just the right things at just the right time.

I've taken hundreds of Polaroids and seen the tiniest but brightest spark of joy in the moment when you hand over a rapidly-developing photo to its new owner, and they realise that a tangible memory of their evening is theirs to keep for ever.

I've gotten matching Summer Camp tattoos - a small piece of art to fight the quiet moments of sadness in the strange transition back to regular life, the feeling of "did I ever even leave?" And a connection back to this city that will last two lives.

I've had photos taken that will live on, adorning the walls of my favourite film store, in pockets and boxes and on shelves. A reminder that, for a brief period of time, I was here - a part of me that always will be. A reminder for them of the person they were in that moment. A little connection between us that will last.

I've heard countless stories about small towns, police chases, work chaos, justice over dickheads, misunderstandings, break ups and unlikely moments of connection. 

I've also asked everyone I could about how they ended up in this city at this time and at this point in their lives, and heard dozens of answers - each so distinctly different but most gravitating back to a central idea:

Things happen here.

Everything can happen here.

And when you're in the middle of it, everything unfolding around you, it feels like being very close to centre of the universe.

It's the place where anything can happen if you just walk into the right building or share the bar with the right stranger. Community and art weave into existence at the smallest prod and people take the time to know you if you take the time to know them. People come here from all over, and everyone has something to give and a world to gain. It sounds cliche but the cliches exist for a reason - whether through a shared belief in what New York should be, or outright drive to make and maintain and participate in it, the city is very much what you hear it to be. 

After eight weeks here, I don’t think I’m worried about the spaces I’ll never get to see. I never made it north of Central Park last trip, and I haven’t this time, either. I’m sure Harlem is nice - I’ll see it next time.

Don’t know much about Queens, but I can tell you more than you ever need to know about Williamsburg.

The thing I’m most sure of is that the best people you may ever meet might be waiting to meet you in the next bar or club or art event. People who will adjust the trajectory of your life, change the way you think and talk and your outlook on the world. You just don’t know them - yet.

That's a good enough reason to take the long way home where you can - to sit at the bar for your drink and to ask someone how their day is going whenever you get the chance.

That said - and this is where things get real cheesy - I don’t think New York City is the centre of the universe.

It is a reminder that, wherever you are, if you can pack a bar with your mates, 

or watch a movie, laughing along to gory scenes with strangers, 

or listen to a band with someone who really loves them, 

or step out for a cigarette or a quiet conversation one-on-one, 

or enrapture a table with a ridiculous story about the first time you destroyed public property as a teen, 

or hear stories about other states, other places, other families and life experiences,

or sit around with Monster energy drink on a couch with a friend, talking about everything or nothing, 

or scream mid-2000s hits on a dancefloor (real or makeshift), 

or learn about the life of someone new, 

or tell someone new about your life,

Whether it's for a few brief minutes or long hours, it’s entirely possible and ridiculously easy to create your own warm little centre of the universe. 

A place where the memories and the feelings and the tokens and the friendships will follow you and shape you forevermore. 

Either way, after 66 days, this camp is over for me. For now. 

I've cried about it. More than once.

There’s so much to look forward to at home (my partner! my dog! a kitchen I can navigate!), but so much to leave behind.

At least I feel like I’ve given everyone here the best of me, and become better for it.

There's a lot of FOMO in New York - you can't go to everything and everything is happening every day at all hours. But leaving altogether elevates FOMO to agony. 

Leaving the party isn't so bad, but knowing the party continues without you opens a small little well of sadness that’s hard to ignore.

But a best friend friend told me that the party is different for you being in it - so it's not entirely the same one after you leave.

And there's all the time in the world to enter another one, in another place, and know you'll be back one day to crash the ones you've dipped out of. If you come back to find the party is over, you can always start a new one.

Summer camp can be whenever you want it to be.

But, fucking hell, I’m going to miss this one.

I love you all to bits. Miss you all already.